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“Who is ut?” called the widow as he softly knocked.

“Me–Sherm,” he replied.

“Saints in hevin! What’s the matter? Are ye sick?” she gasped as she flung the door open.

“‘Sh! Don’t speak so loud,” he commanded. “Sit down; I want to speak solemn-like to you.”

His tone impressed her deeply. “Have ye struck ut?” she asked, tremulously.

“I hain’t found it yet, but I want to tell ye–I believe I’ve had a hunch. Send the ‘chink’ away.”

Something in his tone stopped all scornful words upon her lips. Ordering the Chinaman to bed, she turned and asked:

“Phwat do ye mean? Spake, man!”

“Well, sir, as I started up the trail something kept sayin’ to me, ‘Sherman, you’re on the wrong track.’ It was just as if you pulled my sleeve and nudged me and said, ‘This way!’ I couldn’t sleep that night. I just lay on the ground and figured. Up there high–terrible high–are seams of ore–I know that–but they’re in granite and hard to get at. That’s one gold belt. There’s money in a mine up there, but it will take money to get it. Then there’s another gold belt down about here–or even lower–and I’ve just come to the conclusion that our mine, Maggie, is down here in the foot-hills, not on old Blanca.”

The air of mystery which enveloped and transformed the man had its effect on the woman. Her eyes opened wide.

“Was it a voice like?”

“No, it was more like a pull. Seemed to be pulling me to cross the creek where I found that chunk of porph’ritic limestone. I couldn’t sleep the second night–and I’ve been in camp up there in Burro Park tryin’ to figure it all out. I hated to give up and come back–I was afraid ye’d think I was weakening–but I can’t help it. Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do–I’m going to make a camp over on the north side of the creek. I don’t want the boys to know where I’ve gone, but I wanted you to know what I’m doing–I wanted you to know–it’s plum ghostly–it scared me.”

She whispered, “Mebbe it’s Dan.”

“I thought o’ that. Him and me were always good friends, and he was in my mind all the while.”

“But howld on, Sherm; it may be the divil leadin’ ye on to break y’r neck as did Dan. ‘Twas over there he fell.”

“Well, I thought o’ that, too. It’s either Dan or the devil, and I’m going to find out which.”

“The saints go wid ye!” said the widow, all her superstitious fears aroused. “And if it is Dan he’ll sure be good to you fer my sake.”

III

Sierra Blanca is the prodigious triple-turreted tower which stands at the southern elbow of the Sangre de Cristo range. It is a massive but symmetrical mountain, with three peaks so nearly of the same altitude that the central dome seems the lowest of them all, though it is actually fourteen thousand four hundred and eighty feet above the sea. On the west and south this great mass rises from the flat, dry floor of the San Luis Valley in sweeping, curving lines, and the pinyons cover these lower slopes like a robe of bronze green.

At eight thousand feet above the sea these suave lines become broken. The pinyons give place to pine and fir, and the somber canyons begin to yawn. It was just here, where the grassy hills began to break into savage walls, that Bidwell made his camp beside a small stream which fell away into Bear Creek to the south. From this camp he could look far out on the violet and gold of the valley, and see the railway trains pass like swift and monstrous dragons. He could dimly see the lights of Las Animas also, and this led him to conceal his own camp-fire.

Each day he rode forth, skirting the cliffs, examining every bit of rock which showed the slightest mineral stain. Scarcely a moment of the daylight was wasted in this search. His mysterious guide no longer touched him, and this he took to be a favorable omen. “I’m near it,” he said.